Stephanie Richers

Not in My House

My husband walked upstairs holding his hunting rifle, and all I could say was, “Not in my house.” I took one look at that gun and was instantly transported back to that basement, fourteen years ago, when I thought at least one life was going to end.

Wait and Hope

Today I woke up much like the days before, and this ability to rouse myself from the safety of my bed, I count as my first of small triumphs. I have been waking up like this since I can remember, in a fog of depression, with my first thought always “I’m not sure I can do this again.”

I have never not felt the pain that is depression; I have just had moments of success in hiding it. I fight the callous thoughts all day, every day. Some days I win, some days I fail spectacularly.
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